


And if I Refuse?

by Dramatological



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Humor, F/M, Lyrium Withdrawal, Mages and Templars, Nothing is Guaranteed, Panic Attacks, Possible Character Death, Self-Esteem Issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-01
Updated: 2016-05-31
Packaged: 2018-05-17 16:32:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 8,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5877814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dramatological/pseuds/Dramatological
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"I'm not a hero. If you need some brave soul to stand in front of your army, you'll have to look elsewhere."</i>
</p><p>
  <i>The elf merely arched a brow, "You rebuffed Cassandra's protection and walked out alone into a world that believes you killed the Divine. Whatever else you may be, you've already proven your bravery."</i>
</p><p>---</p><p>What happens when the Herald of Andraste refuses to join the Inquisition?</p><p>Tags, pairings, and rating will evolve as the story does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Betaless -- all glaring errors are just adorable quirks on my part.
> 
> Standard disclaimer: I do not own any of these characters. They belong to Bioware.

"What if I refuse?"

Leliana's eyes narrowed just a fraction, but to her credit, she answered immediately, "You can go if you wish."

Cassandra opened her mouth, but Eve beat her to it, "Okay, then." She spun on one heel and walked out the door.

Behind her, the two women looked at each other, Cassandra's mouth working, Leliana just blinking in confusion. The former Ostwick mage had gotten halfway through the Chantry hall before they started moving again. The pair rushed the door, hurrying after the Herald.

"You should know!" Cassandra caught up with a jangle of chains rubbing against leather and lowered her voice as the lay sisters standing around took a sudden interest, "You should know that while some believe you chosen, many still think you guilty."

Eve nodded, still walking, "Not really a surprise," she said as she smiled and nodded to the small group of gossips standing next to the door, slipping past them and out into the field.

Cassandra caught up again and grabbed hold of her forearm, stopping the Herald, finally, and continuing, "The Inquisition can only protect you if you are with us."

Leliana finally caught up from her somewhat more dignified quick stepping and cut in, "We can also help you."

"It will not be easy if you stay--" Cassandra picked right up from where Leliana had taken a breath, "But you cannot pretend this has not changed you."

The seeker finally ran out of words and released the Herald's arm, folding her hands together at her waist. Eve stared at the dark haired woman for a long moment before she glanced at the redhead, then back. A pause. She took a breath and looked around the yard.

They were staring. All of them, watching her, waiting, for something. She didn't even know what, she just knew they _wanted_ , they wanted with a force that made her stomach tie up in knots. She could feel them, clawing at her for some sort of salvation. Like she could stop the end of the world. It was a cult. It was a cult and they wanted her to be the savior.

The only savior Eve had ever heard of was Andraste, and things didn't work out too well for her. She'd spent years worrying that the templars would cut her head off, or demons would take over her head, or the Chantry would declare her a heretic, and now she had to worry about being burned at a stake?

"I appreciate the…" Had it been a threat? Probably. "Information," she said in a soft voice before she nodded, turned, and continued walking.

"Herald!" Cassandra looked like she'd been punched in the stomach as she trailed after the mage. She made it two steps before Leliana grabbed her by the arm, stopping her forward momentum short, but not her voice, "Eve!"

Eve kept walking.


	2. In Which Eve Broke the Sky

Eve could be counted lucky. They could have demanded she return the clothes they'd given her, and left her to find her way out of the mountains in naught but the torn and bloodied robes she'd worn to the conclave. They'd said nothing, though, allowing her to get away with the blessedly warm clothes, a small bedroll, a pack with real food in it, even the stave she'd found near a box that Cassandra had only reluctantly let her keep in the first place.

For hours, her only concern had been the Seeker tracking her down and dragging her back in chains, if need be. Another hour after that she spent worrying about people who didn't want her alive. Now, however, night was coming, and Eve remembered, with a sort of cold dread, that she was alone, in the snow, in the mountains.

Heat. She would need heat. Eve stepped off the narrow path and into the deeper snow drifts along the side, wading through the powder towards a copse of trees a few hundred yards off to one side. She could make fire, she just needed something to burn. She tramped through the snow, picking up twigs and dead leaves, tripping over roots, slapping herself with hastily moved branches and generally making a muck of things.

Making a muck of things was not unfamiliar. She'd made a muck of things at home, before they found out about the magic. She'd made a muck of things when the magic happened. She'd made a muck of things at the tower, during the rebellion, at the conclave and now… Now, she'd truly topped herself. She'd somehow been involved in _breaking the sky._ She _broke the sky._ How did that even happen? How was that a thing one could muck up?

She glanced up at the greenly glowing scar before looking away just as quickly. Back to the task at hand. There was time to worry about the roof leaking when the fire was out, Rosa would have said. Before she died. Burnt to a crisp and half-melted into rock only to be stepped over later, on their way to figure out exactly how badly she had screwed up, this time.

A snapped twig had her spinning around into a defensive crouch, the magic leaping to her command, swirling around her waiting only to be released. The elf apostate. Solas? Yeah, that was his name. He tilted his head at her curiously, "I apologize, I did not mean to frighten."

Eve stood up straight and looked behind the elf. He seemed to be alone. She released the sweet agony of the fade and shook her head, "No, I …" She looked down at the half-built fire, "Did Cassandra send you?"

"I believe Cassandra is attempting to convince the Commander to muster the army to come get you," The elf quirked a very slight grin at her when she clenched her hands into her vest and eyed the road nervously, "She is not having much luck."

She stared at the man a bit longer before she bent back to her task, quickly getting the twigs built up as she talked, "Look, I'm sorry about the sky. I don't know…" a soft sigh, she'd said it a million times, "I don't remember what happened. I can't help you."

Solas was silent as she got the fire lit, and then only looked away from her when she stopped her fussing and looked back up at him. A moment passed before he said anything else, "I've journeyed deep into the Fade in ancient ruins and battlefields to see the dreams of lost civilizations. I've watched as hosts of spirits clash to reenact the bloody past in ancient wars both famous and forgotten."

What in the hell was he nattering about? Eve narrowed her eyes at the elf. "Uhm," she responded reasonably.

He finally looked at her again, his head tilted as if she might wear a different face if viewed from a different angle, "Every great war has it's heroes."

Eve bounced up to her feet, interrupting him before he could go any farther in that direction, "I'm not a hero. If you need some brave soul to stand in front of your army, you'll have to look elsewhere."

The elf merely arched a brow, "You rebuffed Cassandra's protection and walked out alone into a world that believes you killed the Divine. Whatever else you may be, you've already proven your bravery."

She stared, wild eyed and haunted, her hands grasping each other at her waist, white knuckled. She couldn't think of anything to say to that. He was right. She was going to get herself killed out here, alone. Or she would get herself killed with him, in front of an army. Whatever she chose, now, her life seemed to be leading to one inescapable conclusion that she wanted desperately to escape.

He watched her, apparently unconcerned that he had caused her distress and completely unaffected by her fear, "I will stay with the army, then," he said, his hands coming together to rest on his staff, "For now, at least. It will be interesting to see what this fledgling Inquisition does." He nodded at her and turned, wading back through the snow in his bare feet, making so little noise, this time, that it proved the earlier twig snapping was on purpose.

Eve watched the man get smaller and fade out into twilight before she dropped her knees next to the fire, swallowing her panted breaths and swiping at the unbidden tears that threatened to spill over onto her cheeks.

It was long, dark night, alone with her thoughts and the distant howl of wolves. And the giant hole in the sky.


	3. In Which Plans are Made

"You what, now, Seeker?" Cassandra hushed the dwarf with a harsh hiss and a wave of her hand before she looked out into the chantry hall and closed the door behind him.

"How was I to know she would abandon her duty?" the woman finally replied once privacy had been ensured.

"No, it was my fault. I should have seen something like this in her background," Leliana cut in before Cassandra just waved a hand at her.

"It is no use looking for blame, now. We must move forward."

"It will be more difficult, now, without the mark to help close the rift," Solas said softly from his side of the table, causing the room to go quiet for a long moment as everyone stared at the map.

"Surely, with enough mages working together…" Leliana offered.

"Perhaps. Though I still believe they will need a focal point. If we could find the artifact that was used…" the apostate trailed off, spreading his hands.

"And if we cannot find this artifact?" Cassandra asked.

Solas furrowed his brows at the woman, his head dropping to one side, "Then your promise not to pursue the Herald may have been made prematurely."

"I have agents watching her. We needn't worry about her getting away from us," Leliana offered, causing Varric to snort loudly.

Cassandra twisted her lips at the dwarf, "Obviously it would be better if the Herald chose to help us--"

"You think, Seeker?"

"However," she continued, steel eyes hardening at the interruption, "We must close the breach by any means necessary."

"Agreed," the commander put in, though he looked equally unhappy about it.

Varric looked between the two of them before he threw his hands up and shook his head, "Do you plan to at least ask her first, or just stuff her in the first large bag you can find?"

"Perhaps we should send Solas to speak with her. They are both mages, perhaps they will… Bond? Yes?" Josephine looked around, gesturing vaguely with her quill, but Solas was already shaking his head.

"I am afraid we have little in common. I did attempt to speak with her, but she was not receptive."

A moment of silence before Leliana spoke suddenly, "Send Cullen." She looked around at the raised eyebrows and shifted her weight, her arms crossing over her chest, "She's a circle mage, and by all accounts, a model citizen. No disciplinary actions at all in her record. She will see a templar as both safety and authority." A second's pause and then a slight shrug, "And should it become necessary to…" she eyed the dwarf, "Stuff her in a large bag, who better to do so?"

A storm settled into Cullen's expression, "I've left those days behind me. I would prefer not to relive them."

Josephine was checking something on her board, "We do have a couple of templars among the troops, we could--"

"Oh, no," Varric interrupted, "People are here for the Herald, not for the Inquisition. If anyone outside this room learns that the Herald has left and isn't returning, your army evaporates."

"He's right," Leliana confirmed, "We cannot let it be known that we lost the herald. Certainly not after playing up her importance."

"None of this will matter if we cannot convince the Chantry to cease opposing us," Cullen added with a shrug.

"Enough!" Cassandra banged a gauntlet lightly on the table, "Cullen, you will go the Herald and attempt to talk sense into her. I will take Solas and Varric to find Mother Giselle. Leliana, you and Josephine will have to handle things here. Are we all clear?"

A couple of nods from the ladies. Solas ducked his head slightly, almost a bow, and Varric sighed but waved a hand. Cullen held out the longest, twisting his lips and fondling his sword before he jerked his head unwillingly, "Fine. I shall track down one last run away mage."


	4. In Which Eve Follows a Road

It was just a fork in the road. One option lead south east, farther into Ferelden, around the southern edge of the lake and into the Hinterlands and the middle of a war, the other option lead north, following the foothills straight up to the sea, where there would be a port, and ships to take her… Nowhere. She had nowhere to go.

Eve shrugged the pack off her shoulders and set it down next to the road, stretching her back. She missed the tower, suddenly. She had been content enough, there. She had come to terms with the templars always watching, with the rules and whispering and paranoia. She had grown up there, after all. She barely remembered her real family. Rosa had been her family.

Rapid blinking kept most of the tears at bay and a swipe of the hand fixed the rest. Rosa should have been here. Rosa should have been the Herald. She had always known what to do. From the time they were little girls, together, entering the tower for the first time, strangers united by a shared sense of otherness from the templars who watched them on the road. She was the reason Eve was even at the conclave. Eve had spent the first part of her life following Rosa and would have happily spent the rest doing the same. She'd been the leader, the one who could inspire people, the person you would follow into the void because you believed with every strand of your soul that she would get you through to the other side.

Instead of a leader, there was Eve, carrying Rosa's mark, and Rosa's destiny, and Rosa's death. Eve clenched the fist, looking down at the glove she'd covered it up with. She could feel it, tingling, crawling, stretching and straining for … something. She shook her hand out, as if she could detach the thing with a fast enough flick of the wrist. It stayed, stubbornly intact, pulsing in time -- she knew without looking -- with the breach in the sky.

Some of her cohort had gone to Redcliffe, to join the rebels, but that meant walking into a warzone, automatically assigned, by dint of an accident of birth, to one of the sides, and therefore a target. She looked north. On the other hand, she could go anywhere else. Anywhere.

Anywhere was a big, anxious word. She'd never done anything alone, gone anywhere alone, lived or slept or ate or read or thought alone. These last three days were the first time in her life she'd been alone. Alone used to seem exotic and exciting and _grown up_ in a way mages were not encouraged to be. Now, it just seemed quiet. Quiet and desolate and lonely. She'd never been the sort to want to interact with other people all the time, but now she was beginning to realize she wanted to exist in proximity to them. There was something undeniably comforting about knowing there was another person close by.

It was just a fork in the road. It wasn't supposed to be so monumental, so overwhelming, so devastating.

Eve picked her pack back up. She had no idea if she could survive, alone. Perhaps it was time to find out.


	5. In Which Varric is Going to Hell

The Seeker was about to break under the pressure. Varric could see it coming, like the person on the road who sees the wheel come off the wagon, leaving mere eyeblinks before everything goes horribly, horribly wrong. She'd started sweating before the conversation had even gotten under way. The hand wringing seconds after that, and now she was staring, wide eyed at Mother Giselle with a look that screamed 'Guilty! I am Guilty! I am committing a Grave Sin! Alert! Alert!'

This was Varric's fault. He'd let Cassandra talk him out of doing the talking. No one really wanted to lie to a holy mother, after all, but she'd seemed so determined. She'd convinced herself that lying was both pragmatic and morally justifiable. The seeker was going to do whatever it took to save the world, and she certainly didn't trust Varric to have the best intentions, but then she'd been faced with those big brown eyes, the comfortingly cultured voice, the crows feet that spoke to both great wisdom and the infinite capacity to forgive whatever evil you were personally committing -- and you knew you were committing evil, don't lie -- and the Seeker had started to crack.

Even Solas saw it coming, "Varric--" he started, just as Cassandra opened her mouth, "The truth is--"

"The herald has taken ill!" Varric threw himself forward and wrapped one hand around the seeker's wrist. Far too late to try and play it off as a vacation -- no one looked that guilty about admitting to a vacation.

Cassandra whirled on the dwarf, rage already boiling behind her eyes before Solas got to her, putting a hand on her shoulder and giving her a pointed look as he picked up the ball Varric had started rolling, "She will be okay, Cassandra."

A long pause. The seeker stared at the apostate. Good sense finally settled into place and she took a breath, "I am just so… Worried." She nodded slowly at the elf and let him lead her away from the conversation.

Varric switched his attention to the mother, his voice lowering as he leaned into her, setting them up as fellow conspirators, "We can't have word get around, you understand…" He glanced around at the other people milling about the Crossroads. Any one of them could be a heretic out to harm the Herald.

It worked beautifully, of course. Mother Giselle widened her eyes and lowered her own voice, "What has happened?"

Varric gave the woman a tremulous smile, "The forces that killed the divine… are quite strong," he let his voice drop even lower, "If we had lost her…" His eyes swept to one side, wide and haunted, caught in his own nightmarish vision of a world without the Herald in it.

Varric knew his soul was going to be consigned to the void when the old woman dropped to her knees and took his hands in a strong grip, "You must not lose hope. If the herald can not be strong for us, we must be strong for her. Andraste herself did not march alone."

Oh yeah. Varric could feel the cold wind of the void, the angry glare of the maker. He let the woman comfort him -- he was, after all, committing a grave sin and she had infinite forgiveness. Perhaps even enough for him, "I… You're right. Of course, I…" He swallowed, "I will be strong for her."

She gave him a smile and squeezed his shoulder, "I will go to Haven and take care of the Herald. You must continue her work, here."

Varric stared at her, then cleared his throat and smiled, "Of course, Mother."

Mother Giselle picked herself up out of the dirt and dusted her robes with her hands before she retreated to ready her things for the journey. Solas and Cassandra rejoined him after she had gone.

"She's going to Haven?" Cassandra hissed.

Varric threw his hands out as if to ask what he was supposed to do about it, "Sister Nightingale can handle one holy Mother, I'm sure." At least better than Cassandra had, but he didn't need to add that part, the already looked guilty.

"You are right," she said, unwillingly, but clear enough.

Varric tilted his head, watching the old woman pack her things, "Remind me what happens to elves that commit unforgivable sins?"

"Something about the dread wolf?" Cassandra shrugged.

"Is that better than the void?"

"I very much doubt it," the elf offered.


	6. In Which Cullen Catches Up

Obtaining a mage's allegiance through fear was easy. Easy and flimsy and temporary. Meredith had proven that quite ably. No, what Leliana wanted was a mage's allegiance through respect, affection, a shared bond, which made things quite a bit more difficult.

Cullen had seen that a few times, Greagoir and Irving, Samson and Maddox before that had gone terribly wrong, Wynne and the templar who had been reassigned after she got pregnant -- Cullen could add two and two and get four even as a green recruit.

He, himself, had been far too wet behind the ears to develop a relationship like that before the Blight, and far too broken afterwards. It still hurt, the memories he tried not to think about, the nightmares he still had, and years spent under Meredith who had been far too harsh even before she'd gone mad. Leaving the order had been the only way to save his sanity, perhaps even his soul. Something in the order was rotten, sick and twisted and evil painted over with a veneer of propriety and faith.

And here he was, leading his horse down a path, a hundred yards behind a recalcitrant mage. A recalcitrant mage who kept looking back at him, and was holding so much magic he could feel it all the way back here -- hence keeping his distance.

The order, and the circles, and maybe even the Chatry itself was falling apart, but he couldn't believe that what Greagoir and Irving had shared was blackened by the association. As much as they had grumbled at each other and bickered and even yelled and stomped on occasion, it had been Irving that Greagoir was waiting for, Irving that Greagoir had required to prove the danger over.

Cullen was meant to make that slip of a girl darting nervous looks at him into his Irving, and he wasn't even sure how to begin. She was pretty in a plain sort of way, windswept and freckled, compact and graceful. Surely she would have been more at home running wild through forests and climbing trees and playing pirates than researching dusty old spells in dusty old tomes in dusty old libraries. It had been her poor luck to be born a mage, and thus removed from the natural world she seemed built for.

He had asked Samson, once -- before he'd been asked to leave, before he'd fallen into Lyrium smuggling and apostate helping, before Maddox had been made tranquil -- how he'd managed a relationship with a mage without any distrust. The man had given him a strange, furrowed brow look, as if Cullen had asked for the secret to breathing, "Spend their whole lives in the middle of a storm. S'your job to be the rock."

It was Cullen's job to be a rock. Cullen, with the cold sweat and shakes and clammy, pale skin. Cullen the lyrium addict going into withdrawal. It was enough to make one laugh, the petty little foibles that ruined all a man's great plans.

"Evelyn?! You're Evelyn, right?!" He had to yell at her, thankfully the path was deserted but for the two of them.

The mage jumped and spun around to look at him before picking up her pace, "No, sorry, wrong person!"

Cullen walked a little faster to keep the gap at a reasonable hundred yards, "My name's Cullen!"

"Uh… Jessica! Jessica Crawley! Nice to meet you!"

Cullen grinned, "I used to be a templar!"

She stumbled at that, and shot him a disbelieving look over her shoulder, "Didn't think they made used-to-be-templars!"

"Not many, I admit! I don't mean you any harm, Evelyn!"

The girl stopped in the road, her head turned to one side, giving Cullen a view of her jawline but nothing else. He stopped as well, cognizant of keeping the gap. She stood there, unmoving for a long time, enough that the former templar had to fight the urge to fidget. A rock. He was a rock. Unmoving, serene, patient.

Finally she turned to look at him, "You here to take me back?!"

It was Cullen's turn to go silent and considering for a long moment. He didn't want to scare her into a run, but he got the feeling lying was not going to help foster their budding relationship. He chewed on a lip and looked at the trees surrounding the little beaten dirt road, "Not at the moment! If that changes, I promise to give you a hundred yard head start!" He waved a hand at the distance between them.

She looked away and he thought he might have actually heard her laugh, though the wind carried it away. He was sure he saw a chagrinned smile widen her cheeks. She shook her head at the trees before answering, "Everyone calls me Eve!"

Cullen took that as an invitation and started moving again, slowly, letting the distance between them shorten by measured steps, predictable, placid, easily outrunned. She stood still, her back stiff and her hands in fists, but she let him approach. He stopped outside of arm distance, feeling the fade shift and eddy around him. No fear, rocks did not fear magic. He smiled at the girl, "A pleasure to meet you, Eve."


	7. In Which Eve Makes a Friend

He was lean and strong. He moved like he knew exactly how much power his body could wield, and exactly how to do so. He was entirely comfortable with the sword buckled to his waist and the breastplate on his chest. He didn't even notice the weight or presence of the gauntlets. The man was a life long warrior, and even used-to-be-templars could probably still put her down like a gnat.

So why was he sweating?

Eve immediately released her magic and carefully arranged herself in the manner she'd picked up quickly at the circle -- hands folded together at her waist, back straight, head bent just slightly forward to convey the impression of studiousness or at least deep thought. No sudden movements, hands and mouth never hidden, feet close together to compromise her own balance, muscles loose. She was the very picture of a completely helpless, somewhat distracted, entirely unassuming child. She knew she was -- she had practiced in front of a mirror until she could do it in her sleep.

The man's eyes fell to her hands and tightened, a flash of disappointment crossed his handsome features and Eve felt her heart jump. She'd done something wrong. What had she missed? She very carefully went through her checklist again -- hands in plain view, mouth closed, no tense muscles, easily upset balance… Was she frowning? She carefully drew herself a small, sweet smile, let her head fall just a couple of degrees to the left, and tried a new tact, "How may I be of service, Ser?"

The used-to-be-templar looked up from her hands. He stared for just a heartbeat before his face cleared and he returned her smile. Eve let out a breath she hadn't even been aware she was holding. That was the reaction she'd been looking for. A man completely assured of his own ability to kill her before she could pull any tricks from her sleeves. He didn't answer her question, though, just glancing past her shoulder at the path, "Where are you headed?"

"North." Eve continued to smile.

Cullen narrowed his eyes at her in amusement, but didn't press the question, "Can I give you a lift?" He pat the neck of his horse lightly.

"That's very kind of you, ser, but you'll need your horse to get back."

A short pause before the templar broke into a grin and licked his lips, chuckling under his breath. Eve realized suddenly what she'd said, "I mean… I mean of course I wouldn't take your horse, ser, certainly that's not…" She trailed off as the man continued laughing, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck.

"We appear to be very bad at this, Lady Trevelyan," he said softly, looking around before finally meeting her eyes again, "I'd like to accompany you, if you'll permit."

What? Oh. Oh, no. No, that was a horrible idea, "I would be honored, ser," she found herself saying and fought to keep the smile from turning into a grimace. Bloody templars and their bloody templar wiles. Now what? Eve took the chance to glance at the leaf-covered ground. Perhaps, if she found a rock… No, no, he was a fighter. Maybe she could trip and hit her own head on a rock and then run away when he went for help… No, she might actually hurt herself.

She was shocked out of her thoughts by the man's sudden presence inside her personal space. She gasped and stumbled backwards before she managed to control herself and went very still, staring wide-eyed at the used-to-be-templar. He was standing there, one hand outstretched, looking just as surprised as she was. He also went still.

Several moment passed with neither of them breathing before he finally broke the impasse, "Just…" he said softly, moving his hand very slowly towards her. She kept still, watchful, still not breathing. He plucked the strap of her pack off her shoulder and slipped to slowly down her arm, "Allow me," he finished, smiling at her and swinging the pack over his own shoulder.

Eve took a slow, deep breath. Now the man had her pack. All of her plans to run away were suddenly looking less likely. She widened her smile, "How thoughtful," she forced out before she turned and kept walking.

The used-to-be-templar fell into step next to her.


	8. In Which Cullen is an Angel

There were a few ways to win a fight against a templar. Eve knew this academically, as she'd certainly never gotten in a fight with one. Blood magic was the most reliable, but -- minus the whole evil thing -- cutting herself sounded very painful and quite messy to Eve. Demon summoning had the same problem -- no matter what the demons told her about pain free or no mess options. The third alternative was deception -- poisons and tinctures and sleeping droughts, or even just enough alcohol. Alas, she lacked any spirits and he'd probably get suspicious when she started picking up deathweed instead of elfroot. That left the last recourse available to her -- surprise.

That course of action was coming up, very shortly. She glanced over at the used-to-be-templar, sitting about 25 feet away, next to his own campfire. He'd dragged a deadfall trunk over and was leaning against it, his fire large and warm and comforting, the mouth-watering smell of rabbit drifted over. Eve wasn't stupid, she knew blatant temptation when she saw it. The demons had been offering her comforting fires and roast rabbit for years. No, she stayed firmly at her own barely contained brush fire with her soggy blanket and wild onion stew, thank you very much.

The man's head was tipped forward towards his chest, his legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle. He hadn't moved in quite some time. Still, she waited. Soon, the moon hung heavy mid sky and even the wildlife had gone quiet, and she saw it. The tell-tale shaking of a lyrium user in deep sleep. Now.

She yanked on the fade and flung the spell she'd been carefully working for the last hour, waiting until the last second to draw any power for it. It settled over the templar, invisible but for the fact that his shaking had stopped. He was held. She darted to her feet and ran for the horse. Resting against a trunk next to the beast was the saddle, the saddle bags, and the long twine of rope she'd seen earlier.

Rope in hand, she jogged back to the templar and dropped in front of him next to his legs, the bundle already pulled apart and coiled over the ground behind her. She had no idea how to tie professional knots, but she didn't suppose they had to be professional, just to keep a templar busy for a few hours.

"Lady Trev--" his voice was soft, gentle even, but she shrieked anyway and launched herself backwards, away from him and up to her feet.

"Oh, maker," she said, one hand going to her heart which was right at the moment trying to hammer it's way out of her rib cage. "Maker," she repeated, "Maker, I…" She looked around, wild eyed, for an easy exit. Finding none she carefully crept back towards the man, staying low, as if he might not notice her, "I am so sorry," she cried, picking the rope back up with her shaking hands and trying to get it around his ankles.

She couldn't make her fingers work. She felt dizzy, light headed, "This isn't me," she whispered at the man, desperate and pleading, "I don't do this… Really, I've never… It's just I need to… I can't… I'm sure... you're a very... nice templar…"

"Enchanter Trevelyan!" She blinked and looked up at him, realizing suddenly that he'd been repeating her name for several seconds at least, "You're hyperventilating."

Was that what that sound was? She dropped the rope and put a hand to her chest, feeling it quake with the great gasping breaths she was taking. Oh maker. She was going to pass out. She was going to pass out and then he would get free and…

"Enchanter! Look at me! I am ordering you to look at me!" Her head felt thick, slow and heavy, but she managed to follow his order. He was blurry, a shining man-shaped figure haloed in a brilliant orange light. An angel from the maker. She wasn't going to pass out, she was going to die. She could feel tears leaking unheeded down her cheeks.

The angel was still talking, "Release this arm, Enchanter Trevelyan. Just the arm. I won't hurt you, but you need to release this arm." Why would an angel hurt her? She looked down at his arm but didn't see anything wrong with it. It took her several precious seconds to realize he meant the magic holding the man still, and another several seconds to release it.

Before she could truly comprehend what was happening, the angel had grabbed her by the jaw and was pulling her towards him, spinning her around. In the time it took to blink, she had her head pressed against his chest, his hand clamped tightly over her lips, forcing her to breath through her nose.

She couldn't breathe. She couldn't breath and he was trying to kill her. Her lungs were on fire, and her head pounded through the worst pain she could remember feeling. Eve struggled, clawing at the hand, her legs kicking as she tried to squirm out of his grip, but he was too strong. Just as the mage thought for sure her heart would seize, the pain began to recede.

She twitched a little, removing her nails from the man's hand as the fog in her head lifted. Moments later she relaxed against him, clinging to his arm as if it were the only thing keeping her head above water. It _was_ the only thing keeping her head above water. She sniffed, her shoulders jerking as single sob escaped her throat.

Cullen loosened his bruising grip on her cheeks and let his hand drop to squeeze her shoulder, apparently unconcerned with her clinging, "Just breathe, my lady. Just breathe."


	9. In Which Eve Steals a Horse

Anxiety, fear, emotional outbursts, sobbing, even rage and violence -- these were not unusual outcomes of plucking children from their homes after some magic incident and putting them away in a tower with armed guards. The Herald was not the first mage Cullen had gotten through an attack. Those were apprentices, though. Children -- some of them barely out of short pants, not fully grown adults. They usually lost all control of their magic, but she'd managed to hold the spell she'd cast. Easily broken, now, but to do so would probably send her into another fit, so he left it.

She was shivering, but otherwise unmoving, her eyes wide and staring out into the darkness past the fire in the shocked numbness that followed most outbursts of the sort. He took advantage of her temporary pliability to turn her chin. Her cheeks were red, a large bruise in the shape of his fingers forming quickly, and blood lined her lips from where he'd ground the flesh into her teeth. That could have been done much better, but with only one hand to work with…

The Herald blinked and locked her gaze on him when his thumb moved to wipe the blood from her lips. A fully grown adult woman, not a child barely out of short pants. Cullen removed his hand and she sat up, pulling away to slump weakly near his feet. He watched her, silent as she collected herself, wiping the back of her hand over her lips and smearing blood up onto her cheek to mingle with the accumulated dust, dirt, and tears.

Her work continued in silence as she straightened and leaned forward, picking up the rope from where it had fallen and wrapping it around his crossed ankles.

"There's a knife in my right boot," Cullen said, carefully keeping his voice quiet, barely above a whisper. She stared at the boot, then at him, confused by this seeming non-sequitur. "It could cut me, if you leave it."

Eve furrowed her brows and lifted his pants leg to find the little holster and pull it out, setting it on the grass next to her before she completed tying his legs with a knot that wouldn't hold a bag closed, let alone a fully grown adult man. He didn't correct her, just watching as she shifted to start winding the coils around his chest and arms.

He kept his hand still, resting lightly against his thigh. He even helped a little, pressing forward against the magic to let her get the rope around his back, "If you keep heading north, in a couple of days ride, you'll cross a river coming down from the mountains and feeding into the lake. One of those old elven statues of a wolf next to the waterfall. Good fishing, dense trees. The pirates don't come that far south, it should be safe for you to wait there."

The mage yanked on the knot she'd made to hold his chest and set back on her ankles, her head tilting to one side in an oddly bird like motion, "For what?"

"For me. I'll come get you."

Eve blinked at him, then pressed her lips together, looking down at her hands. A second passed before she leaned forward and rested one hand, feather-light over his, patting him like she would an aged, and slightly batty, relative, "Of course, ser." She actually looked a little sad when she gave him a tremulous smile, "Thank you for helping me, ser. You really do seem like such a nice templar." She rocked back onto her feet and stood, heading for the horse.

"I'm not lyrium addled, Lady Trevelyan. I really am just trying to keep you safe."

The mage glanced back at him over her shoulder, her brows drawn together and lips tight. She stared for a bare moment before she went back to the saddle. She managed to put the saddle on correctly and tighten all the right straps. Miracle of miracles, the woman did actually know how to do something. She finished the last strap and stood still, one foot in the stirrup, apparently deep in thought. "You think I'm chosen, too," she said softly, not looking back, before she pulled herself up and settled into the saddle as if born there.

"I don't care if you're chosen. I'm not here for Andraste, my lady, I'm here for you."

She turned, finally, looking down at him with her brows drawn together, searching his eyes. A long moment passed before she just nodded at him, "I'm sorry I'm not who you wanted." With that, she heeled the horse into movement and vanished into the night.

Cullen let out a sigh and closed his eyes, waiting. Fifteen minutes later a twig snapped before a man stepped out of the underbrush leading a horse. He got Cullen untied and stood back while the templar stood up and stomped feeling back into his feet. He fished around in his belt pouch and tossed something at the templar, "A present. Sister Nightingale had it imported special from Ostwick."

Cullen caught the phylactery and sighed at it, slipping it into his vest, "I'm taking your horse," he said, walking over to pick up the reins, "Tell Leliana that we may need to look into procuring a large bag."

"Of course, commander." The man glanced down the road towards where the mage had gone, "Being unreasonable, is she, ser?"

"Unreasonable, deceitful, manipulative, sneaky, entirely inept at even basic survival, and has panic attacks." The templar shook his head, "How she passed her harrowing is a complete mystery."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "You seem like such a nice beast."
> 
> Many thank yous for all the wonderful kudos and comments!


	10. In Which Varric is not Stuffed in a Dress

"I told her the Herald was cloistered in prayer and fasting," Leliana gave the small group a side-eyed look, half smug, half accusing, "Very religious, our Herald."

"It was the best I could do with the material given to work with," Varric muttered, pulling his gloves off and tossing them down on the war table before climbing into a chair with a grunt, still muddy from the ride.

Josephine stared at the gloves, pressing her lips together, one hand twitching towards them before going still again, "Yes… Ahhh…" She stumbled over her words until Cassandra swept the offending article off the table and onto the floor, replacing them with her hands as she leaned forward, peering at the placement of markers, "Yes. Mother Giselle has provided us with the names of several of the more unswayed of the Chantry to speak with. Unfortunately, she says the Herald must go there, personally. We cannot continue to claim religious devotion for long."

"Who among them has actually seen her?" Solas spread his hands, "Of the few that survived the conclave only Chancellor Roderick has spoken to her, and he's still here. I imagine a description has gotten back, but it shouldn't be hard to find a dark haired human."

"She is a Trevelyan, however, which actually is a quite religious family, it's certain she has relations inside the chantry," Josephine offered before Leliana shook her head.

"She entered the circle at eight and to the best of anyone's knowledge, has not spoken with her family, since. Even her relations in the chantry can not be expected to know her on sight. No, the problem with impersonating her is that the three of us," her hand moved to indicate the three women in the room, "Would all be recognized, and stuffing either of you in a dress would be a farce."

"My lady, you wound me. For all you know I could be ravishing in a dress," Varric countered and the two shared a short smile.

Cassandra looked up, "Do you have any agents we could use, Leliana?"

"Only the two agents following her know that she is missing and they are both men, my most trusted." The spymaster crossed her arms over her chest, "How many more people can we afford to tell?"

The group fell silent, Varric rubbing at one of his calves and the seeker nudging pieces around on the table. Moments passed before Josephine looked up from her papers, "Val Royeaux follows the Orlesian fashion…"

Varric dropped his leg and pointed, "A mask, of course! Brilliant, Ruffles!"

Cassandra twisted her lips and smoothed her hands down over her hips, "I am not comfortable--"

"Have you seen your muscle tone, Seeker? No. The only one of you convincingly pulling off Free Marches Mage is sister Nightingale," Varric shook his head at the woman, causing her to sigh in relief and look over at Leliana.

"There are some simple enchantments that could help. Ensure that no one will look too close," Solas added.

Leliana was nodding slowly, "Josephine, I will need one of those exceedingly shiny masks, with some sort of sunburst pattern. Make it as gaudy as possible. The more outrageous the mask, the less likely one is to look under it. People see what they want to see. Varric, we will also need to practice my accent." She looked down at the papers in front of her and tapped them lightly with a finger, "We will also put it out among the agents that we will be fielding several look alikes, to protect the Herald. It will leak, of course, but we merely continue to deny any such plan. We will have cover if something happens in Val Royeaux, and provide a bigger screen to hide our missing Herald behind."

"You should also keep an eye open for potential recruits. Many people will show up to have a look at the Herald. We should bring as many of them to our side as possible," Josephine said off hand, still scratching things out on her tablet.

With that settled, Cassandra stood up straight and moved to another topic, "What news of the Herald?"

"My last report says that she and Cullen are traveling together, though how willingly that is…" She shrugged, "I have sent along her phylactery. If she manages to slip her escort, Cullen will find her."

"And the commander? He is doing well?" The questions was deliberately, almost overtly, casual.

Leliana lowered her chin slightly, sharing a meaningful look with the seeker, "I am sure he is fine, Cassandra. Should I hear otherwise, you will be the first to know."


	11. In Which Leliana Sparkles in Sunlight

The mask was truly grotesque. It was pretentious, gaudy, with wavy slivers of filigree shooting in all directions. It was the bastard child of the Sunburst Throne and a bird's nest made by the golden goose. Perfect, in other words.

Leliana had the accent down pat, her natural rolling 'R's smoothed over and a small lilt giving just a touch of an upper class background. Her hair was dyed, her robes well fit, her posture proud and powerful without being aggressive.

The speech was beautiful, with a good triplet rhythm and sections marked to pause for expected applause or gasps, the language flowery enough to be inspiring, but common enough to be approachable. It was almost the best thing Varric had ever written.

A pity Leliana had only made it through two sentences before everything went sideways.

"Did he just punch an old woman?" Nightingale had sputtered to a stop and stood, silent and staring for several seconds before the mutter.

"Yes. Yes, he did," Varric answered softly, staring as well. Cassandra had already started forward and seemed to be in an argument with the Lord Seeker. Solas was standing to one side, his head tilted in that angle he used every time he was watching humans do human things.

Leliana stood for a second longer before she stepped forward as well, bending to help pick the old mother off the floor, only to get slapped at and shoo'd for her trouble. She rocked backwards, pausing for just another second before she took a breath and the character of Herald settled back over her shoulders. She spun and stalked after Cassandra.

Varric exchanged a glance with the apostate before following, and the two caught up just in time to see Leliana launch into an impassioned, and brilliantly improvised, bit about the nobility of templars and how they should all join Cullen in the Inquisition.

The Lord seeker sneered at the suggestion, and at the Herald, and seemingly even the entire idea of an inquisition, though Varric noted that not all of his men were quite so convinced in the Lord Seeker's righteousness as the Lord Seeker assumed.

They'd walked in the gates not half an hour ago, and the whole thing was over -- the holy mother still huddling on the ground surrounded by sisters, the templars marching smartly towards the exit, and several of the golden filigree spires on Leliana's mask were bent as if melting in the sun.

Cassandra watched the men go with her lips pursed and her eyes narrowed, "That could have gone better."

"Anything that starts with socking a holy mother isn't going to end on a high note, Seeker," Varric muttered.

"Has the Lord Seeker always been so…" Leliana trailed off into a hand wave as if searching the right word.

"Arrogant?" the elf supplied, just as Varric offered, "Maniacal?"

Cassandra was too flummoxed to even bother fixing the dwarf with her usual steely-eyed stare. She just wrung her hands and chewed on her lower lip, shaking her head, "The Lord Seeker has been…" the pause was just long enough to be noticeable, "A hard man, but this?" She shook her head again.

Leliana caught herself before she could sink into one hip and cross her arms, instead shifting her weight gracefully and rolling her shoulders, the costume beginning to chafe, "We should return. There's nothing for us, here."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This started okay, and ended bad. But it's been bad for weeks and I wasn't getting anywhere with it, so I'm just letting it go and moving on.


End file.
